World of Make Believe
by Luna Lovegood5
Summary: Sometimes, he loses himself to the memories. This is one of those times. TenxRose.


**World of Make Believe**

**A/N:** I've been trying to post this since Thursday and only just managed by editing a document I already had uploaded. This site really hates me at the moment.

Huge thanks go to the ever-wonderful Emma for the title.

_--_

_"Rose'd know. That friend of mine, Rose. Right now she'd know exactly the right thing to say."_

That's all it takes. One mention of her name and he's completely lost, spiralling back through time, and somehow the woman in front of him isn't Martha at all. It's Rose, Rose in the bed, the fact that they're sharing a mattress so much more and less of a big deal.

There are a million other times he could have gone back to, a million other occasions where she weaved a spell over him with a few well-placed words, but he has a tendency to return to the moments he misses most, the ones he preserves in the greatest detail. The ones that make him miss her touch. His position now, opposite Martha, close but never quite making contact, is a painful reminder. He's taken her hand already, of course, needing that reassurance, but it's _different_. It reminds him of how things used to be, softer and smaller, warmer and taken without necessity or running, and sometimes he has to stop for a minute and swallow, resisting the urge to drop Martha's hand and tear the universe apart searching for the fingers that came before hers.

The hand he can almost feel touching him isn't Martha's, he knows. It's unquestioning, stiller (funny how much you can tell about someone from how much their fingers twitch within yours), pressed over his right heart with a smile. He's heard it's impossible to smile in your sleep, but Rose manages it, despite all he's put her through. For a sleeping person, she is – was? – positively beaming. By her usual standards, however, it is just a gentle acknowledgement of his presence, the hint of a curve at the corner of her lips. Has he always wanted to kiss her this much? Did he then?

All traces of the Shakespearean room fade from existence as his memory brings her to life in every tiny, glorious, guilt-filled detail. She's more pink and yellow than ever, her skin reflecting both the colour of the sheets beneath her and the glow of light from beyond the door, breathing – _breathing_ – with the slightest of snuffles, her mind dancing on the edge of slumber. He thinks they might bump noses if he tilts his head, but he'll never know – he never did it then, so it won't play out that way in his mind now.

Rose's covers are softer than the ones he was lying over a second ago, her walls a violent shade of pink, even with such little light cast upon them, and her entire body so very, very close to his. He can smell her, all fresh cut grass and toothpaste and fruity shampoo, like she's right there in front of him, and she_ is_, she is. He can _feel_ her. Crying doesn't matter any more. Grief and sorrow and loss, they don't exist, because she's here, right here, solid and beautiful and real in his arms. Where she should be.

He's missed her more than even he knew.

"Rose," he manages to whisper, choked and rendered quite unable to say anything else. If only she knew how it felt to be able to utter her name within her hearing after so long, far too long, of muttering it to other people or crying it out to no-one at all, never once receiving the response he wants.

"Rose…" He pushes away the vague recollection of another time in which he will whisper to her across her dreams, instead urging her to open her eyes and just _look_ at him again.

But she doesn't react, because he didn't say it. Guilt-ridden as he had been, then, he wasn't nearly so consumed by the need to feel her heartbeat, her fingers, her lips, to simply say her name and hear her respond, as he is now. He can't change the course of a memory from the distance of another life, though, and so his desperate whispers go unheard. Why did he place them so far apart that night? Another inch closer and he could have felt her lungs expand with every breath. As it is, she sleeps on, unspoilt by his guilt and grief, and he remembers how it felt to hold her then, mere hours after thinking he had lost her to one of their adventures-gone-wrong. He tries to push away comparisons, thoughts of how things are in reality, but he can't help it. Strong as the memory is, he can't ignore how it feels to hold her again, months after _knowing_ he has lost her for good, can't stop this from being the dominant emotion of his mind.

He surrenders himself to it, and he is lost.

--

They are utterly at ease except for their pounding hearts, and he is not cold or stiff or unyielding at all, but wrapped up in her, stealing snatches of a life they can never really have together, his mind more completely in the present than it has been in a long time.

She wriggles a little in his embrace, trying to get comfortable, and he wonders if he really did grip her this tightly or if he's over-compensating now. Her eyes are closed, her feet warm and small at his calves, her beauty intensified by memory and grief. To him – to the whole world, surely – she is perfect.

It's the twenty-first century and they're curled up in the Tyler flat, the Doctor having snuck into Rose's bedroom in the early hours of the morning, finding her as wide awake as he had expected. She'd smiled and that was it – somehow, naturally, they had fallen into this, holding one another through the night and in grave danger of kissing each other senseless.

Radiators and Rose surround him, invalidating the need for covers. He only hopes Jackie doesn't wander in for a midnight chat with her daughter. He is, for all intents and purposes, _supposed_ to be sound asleep in the living room, though how Jackie expects any of them to just _drop off_ after the past few days they've had is anyone's guess.

Then again, they never do let Jackie hear the full extent of their adventures; she'd never let Rose out of the house if they did. In which case, he's pretty sure that she must think all this was a horrible, horrible, one-off accident, and it's probably best to keep things that way. She would quite literally regenerate him through all his remaining lives if she had the slightest idea that all that had happened to Rose was entirely his fault. His fault for being careless and not checking the year of their landing, for not turning back even when he realised he'd dropped Rose right in the middle of a very violent, very bloody revolution, his fault for allowing her to get captured and then…

She sighs in her sleep at just the right moment, the resulting, tickling air sparing him from a memory he desperately wants to forget but knows he deserves to keep.

They'd just returned from Lucifer, a planet full of people as forbidding as its name, when they arrived here. The look on Jackie's face as he'd stormed out of the TARDIS, urgently carrying a heavily bleeding and very much unconscious Rose to her bed, death written on both of their faces without so much as an explanation…well. It wasn't one he'd forget in a hurry. Knowing this was all, essentially, down to him, it was an image his conscious wouldn't let him forget.

Jackie's frantic shouts still ring through his head, even now in a silent flat filled only with the sound of Rose's breathing.

He would never have brought her here, never have risked Jackie comprehending the danger he took her daughter into every single day, if he had another choice. Under normal circumstances, he would have put Rose straight into the medical bay and let the TARDIS work her magic, but the old girl had taken a good beating, too, and he didn't want to risk Rose's life or the TARDIS' health by forcing a weakened ship to provide for a dying woman.

Remembering the feel of her unconscious form in his arms, blood swiftly draining from her body, he shivers and pulls her closer, needing to feel her full and warm and alive. Their legs tangle together as he thanks the universe for being kind, just this once, and letting him save her in time. He thanks random chance for providing the population of Lucifer with hearts in the right side of their chest, allowing what was intended to be a fatal stab to wound far less than it should have. And, finally, kissing Rose's forehead in unspoken gratitude, he thanks _her_, for staying with him through and despite all of this, for fighting, for not asking to stay here while he continues in his dangerous life alone.

Or was the kissing for a different reason? Was he so bound by grief, by the potential for loss, that he really did cling to her so, or is his memory exaggerating things?

It hardly matters. Rose's eyes open, slowly, leisurely, and he wills her to not even blink, he is that relieved to see colour staring back at him again after two days of waiting at her bedside, tending to her wounds and desperate for any sign of life. She averts her eyes shyly, gaze flickering unintentionally to his mouth before resting somewhere around his shoulder. Such gentle assaults on his emotions, such quiet and constant declarations of feeling and intention, somehow seem incredibly out of place now, so stark is the contrast between past and…

No. No past, no future, no contrast. Just _now_. He shakes his head, clearing it, willing himself to lose all thought in her.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, and she closes her eyes again as his breath, cool and light, dances over her lips and nose.

"Same as I was five minutes ago, Doctor," she laughs, snuggling into him contentedly all the same. He doesn't know whether to be flattered or offended at the idea that he makes such a good pillow, and he can't quite believe that he's lying here like this, face-to-face with a London shop girl in her conspicuously pink bed. If his other selves could see him now…

But he doesn't care. Rose almost died because of him. This is the closest he has ever come to losing her, watching her life drain away as he frantically works to repair the damage – but he has her now, right in front of him, alive, breathing, whole. No pools of blood, no fevers, no separating universes, just _alive_. And he's going to make the most of it.

"Sorry. I just – "

"Worry?" For a second, he looks like he's going to deny it. Then he realises just how futile that would be and closes his mouth, protestations going unsaid. "I know. But you don't have to, not anymore." Her eyes are wide open now, searching his earnestly, knowing he would blame himself even if she had knowingly walked into that knife with all the purpose in the world. It's still there – guilt, clouding his expression, darkening his irises so that all he can see is her blood. Rose takes his hand and moves back a little, pressing it to her wound and keeping her own hand firmly over his. "I'm fine. See? All better now, thanks to you. 'S a good job you know how to play at being a real doctor every now and then," she smiles, teasing.

But it's not _all better now_, and he knows it. It's _thanks to you_ that she was even injured in the first place. He only changed that dressing an hour ago and already the blood is seeping through again, staining the white gauze with crimson blossoms and dots. It's a stark reminder of what he stood back and let happen to her – what he has, essentially, done to her himself. He might as well have been the one holding the knife.

He tugs his hand away, rips himself out of her arms and turns onto his back, hands clenched together at his stomach.

"Doctor…" Her voice, warm and cautious as her hand on his arm, slices through him. He closes his eyes guiltily, sighing through his nose. He knows what she's going to say. _You weren't holding the knife, so stop blaming yourself, yeah? It's not your fault._

"I was supposed to look after you, not let a bunch of megalomaniac purple men slice you up like kebab meat." She winces at the allusion. "You were my responsibility, Rose."

Indignation flares up in Rose at this suggestion that she's some sort of silly child who needs watching wherever they go, but she pushes it down. The Doctor didn't mean it like that, she knows, and this is hardly the time or place to pick an argument with him, not when he's busy beating himself up over an injury she's quickly recovering from.

"What, 'cause you promised Mum that you'd always keep me safe?" she asks, looking at him critically. He blinks at her, startled, wondering if this is what she really believes: if, in her eyes, his emotion for her extends as far as a promise to her mother. "It's my life, Doctor," Rose tells him, a gentle firmness softening the defiance in her tone. "If I get hurt, I get hurt. It's part of the job. And I've got you, haven't I?" she says bracingly, as though he can solve everything. "Doesn't matter what happens. We'll get through it. We're always alright in the end, you and me."

Such a statement is too much, far too much when he's almost watched her die, when he's been so close to seeing her promise of _forever_ wither away before his very eyes. He turns back to her and grabs her arms in one swift, jumpy movement, making her half of the mattress bounce up in violent protest as he yanks her to him, as lacking in gentleness and unheeding of her injury as she's ever seen him. She's shocked and rigid, eyes wide, pulled right up against him. Well, good. Perhaps she needs shocking to realise the danger he put her in, to realise that he might not always be around to get her out again. She's been brushing this off like it's nothing, like he didn't see that knife plunge into her chest or have to pull it out himself, never knowing if he'd take her life with it, and he _needs_ her to understand. One day, she will fall, and he won't be the one to catch her. Her resulting gasp is lost in his following outburst.

"I want you safe for _you_, Rose!" he hisses, voice unnecessarily harsh, both of them well aware that the biggest reason he wants her around is _himself_. It doesn't matter. It amounts to the same thing in the end. "Can't you see that? Do you think that great big knife sticking out of your chest only bothered me because of some promise I'd made to your _mother_?"

His eyes are frantic, flicking left and right to each of hers, and she knows he's not seeing her. Not the _her_ in front of him, anyway. The Rose he's seeing is surrounded by a pool of blood on a cold floor, crimson as her name, limp and pale in his arms while she stains his suit and skin, whispering weakly for him even as he sits at her bedside, watching her slip in and out of a reality he has caused.

"I didn't _mean_ that!" she protests, eyes full of shock as she tries to struggle free, hands pushing at his chest to create some sort of distance between them. This isn't the Doctor she knows. Oh, she's seen him angry before, of course, but never directed at _her_ like this. It radiates off him in waves, pouring from every inch of him, and it genuinely scares her, pulled this close to him without any idea of what he might do next. He can be so unpredictable.

Rose's frantic movements begin to get through to him, though. He looks at her for a moment, eyes wild, before finally seeming to see her, to realise that he's only making things worse. The grip over her arms loosens and his hands drop, leaving white finger-marks across her skin. There are a thousand and one other things that need to be said, things that will make her realise that there really is no safety net beneath her, even with him around, but this isn't the way to do it. He backs off a good foot or so, retreating to the other side of the bed and leaning back against the headboard as she slowly sits up and wraps her arms about her knees. It's no real distance, not on a bed this small.

She's left breathing heavily, eyeing him warily as they both regain their composure, more than a little reluctant to reach out and touch him again, too scared to open her mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing. He runs a hand agitatedly over his face and through his hair.

"I thought you were dying," he says, his voice quiet and imploring this time, his whole demeanour changing. His eyes roam her face regretfully. "I was going to lose you and it was all my fault."

They've been through this. Arguing that, _well, she's fine now, so let's stop talking about it, yeah?_ isn't going to help. She is silent.

"I can't see that happen again, Rose," he tells her, and she bites back the urge to retort that she's in no hurry to be impaled for a second time, either.

"I know you think this is your fault – " she begins, the slightest hint of a shake in her voice and a calming hand extended to his left heart, but he cuts across her – exactly as she knew he would.

"It _is _my fault."

" – But you've gotta understand that there was _nothin'_ you could do," she finishes, as though he hadn't interrupted her, scrambling up the bed to lean against the headboard alongside him. "You got that? Nothin'. They had you tied up, Doctor. I know you're good but you're not exactly Houdini. You did what you could and you got to me in time." She indicates her bandages with a slight downward nod of her head. "And then you looked after me, just like you said you would."

It's all so simple to her. He saved her, he'll save her again, and that's the only thing that matters. He doubts there will ever come a time when she blames him, no matter what he does. It's a thought that terrifies him.

"I should have _done_ something," he insists, through clenched teeth, turning his body to face her properly in his insistence. "I should never have taken you there in the first place. I should – "

"Shoulda what? Shoulda stuck to all the safe planets, took me to alien supermarkets and fancy hotels and the seven moons of Jupiter 'cause the weather's nice up there? Come off it, Doctor." Even he knows how ridiculous this sounds, and such knowledge stops him from correcting her about the weather on Jupiter – or its number of moons. "That's not your life. That's not the life I chose. When you asked me to come with you all those months ago, I knew exactly what I was letting myself in for. I chose you, danger and monsters and life-or-death and all." It's who he is. She knows that. She's known that all along. It's who she is, now. "I've never asked you to wrap me up in cotton wool and hide me away from the universe 'cause it's _too_ _dangerous_, an' I never will."

It's the cotton wool that does it. She does not know, cannot know that this has been his argument, his very defence of and justification for the life he's dragged her into, given repeatedly to himself and countless others many, many times over the past two years. He won't hold her back or decide when something is too risky for her. He can't. He offered her the whole universe, and that's what she gets, warts, knives and revolutions and all. He just wishes it didn't involve her getting so very hurt.

The guilt is still there, will always be there, returning twice as strong when he watches her fall away from him to another universe, trapped forever…

He shakes his head. That isn't now. _It hasn't happened yet._ Within the confines of this room and time he can ignore his guilt because it's not that strong. Not as strong as it will be. He can push it away and admit defeat, make the most of the last few days he'll ever have with her.

Finally, he settles, accepting Rose's arms around him again, and she presses a happy, light kiss to his nose, a compromise between forehead and lips. Both sets of eyes close for the briefest of seconds and she touches her forehead to his, opening her lids to find herself quite cross-eyed, a Doctor with six eyes looking back at her as earnest as ever. She giggles, a sound he has missed so very completely, and pulls back to lie down and rest on the pillow, a couple of inches away.

He's astounded by how thoroughly she has the measure of him and slides down the bed to meet her, despite himself. They are face-to-face again, and he finds that he has unconsciously allowed his arms to make their familiar way around her once more. "You amaze me sometimes, Rose Tyler, do you know that? You and your words. How is it that you always know exactly the right thing to say to me?"

"It's a gift," she had laughed, eyes twinkling, asleep not long after. He remembers, then, watching her until morning, holding her closer than he'd dared to before, a little too close to watch her peaceful face comfortably. He'd been unable to suppress his smile when her eyes had slowly opened hours later, surprised to find herself still in his embrace, yawning and making him marvel at the unusual pattern of air across his skin.

She stretches slightly, shaking off the night's sleep, and the scent of her fades. No, he frowns, that's not right. It's not supposed to fade. It's supposed to get stronger – introduce a new smell, even, a small hint of antiseptic that he had always known was there but hadn't quite registered before that moment. So why isn't it there now? Why has it changed?

He's smiling down at her all the same, because that's how it went. Despite something new and different tugging on the edges of his senses, he's fighting to remain completely caught up in her, beautiful and smiling as she is. He doesn't want any of this to change, doesn't want his memories of her to be polluted by tears and screams.

She has one arm pressed between them, hand flat against a heartbeat, the other sliding over his shoulder and across his back. He can feel it, even now, see her eyes following her own hand's progress, sense her fingers moving up through his hair. Why haven't they been sleeping like this all along? Why don't they sleep like this still? Just a few hours passed in this way and he can't imagine his bed without her there to fill it up. She ruins him for anyone else.

Anyone else…

No. _Rose._ He can remember her, warm and alive and with him, right there with him. Her toes had tickled his calves as she stretched and wiggled them. But he doesn't want to _remember_. He wants to drag her into the present with him, show her off to Shakespeare and tell her that it's raining on the moon, but she's fading, slipping from him even as he forces himself to recall more of her, and soon there won't be anything to hold onto.

There shouldn't be damp in the air of a 21st century London bedroom, he realises sadly, and then that's it. All of a sudden his arms are at his sides, empty. Her halo of blonde hair has vanished, as has her warmth, the softness of her covers and the vibrancy of her walls. She stole his breath, not just by being there but by leaving, and it takes him a moment to get it back.

When he does, less than two seconds have passed since he last uttered her name and already everything is wrong. All wrong.

Martha. It's not just an answer she's waiting for. She's looking at him across the bed, disappointment and, already, a weariness of _Rose _colouring her features. "Rose" is the last name she wants to hear from his lips; it doesn't take much presence of mind to see that.

But what can he do? He _needs _to say her name.

He shouldn't be on this bed – what would Rose think? What will _Martha_ think? Oh, he's working himself into a whole world of confusion there – and he has to practically leap away to break the feeling, to shake off the memories and comparisons that are threatening to consume him. He can't be this close to her. It's too much, far too much, a horrible reminder of everything he's lost, of how embellished perfection will inevitably always give way to reality in the end, no matter how many times he allows his mind to take him back.

_"Still. You're a novice. Can't be helped."_

He doesn't even know what he's saying, more than half of his mind and all of his heart still wrapped around Rose in her shockingly pink bedroom as she smiles up at him, utterly content, and he moves forward to –

_"I'll take you home in the morning."_

Conversation over, and he's too lost in thought to realise Martha's offended, even hurt. Perhaps he'd care if he could.

The candle goes out and they are plunged into darkness. He welcomes it, hoping his sight doesn't adjust too quickly, forcing himself not to blink. She's burnt inside his eyelids.

Martha sleeps on. He doesn't watch her. He doesn't even look at her. He is somewhere else.

--

**A/N:** This is the second of thirteen completely unconnected stories I plan to write during the course of series three, all of which will be Doctor/Rose centric and probably rather shippy, lest the certain deluge of Martha eps and fics to come allows us to forget how wonderful the two of them were together. I'll post a new one a few days after each S3 episode is aired (providing this site is feeling co-operative, that is). Thanks for reading!


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